


a thunder in our hearts

by sunshinemachine



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-20
Updated: 2015-12-20
Packaged: 2018-05-07 09:49:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5452322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunshinemachine/pseuds/sunshinemachine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three other ways to toss a coin. / How the night of Sam's murder could have gone, and the one way it always will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thunder in our hearts

**Author's Note:**

  * For [miikkaa_xx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miikkaa_xx/gifts).



**_i._ **

There are few things that manage to keep Michaela Pratt up at night. The main one is homework and studying, which are infinitely more important than the rest. Occasionally, the memory of Aiden’s imprint on her sheets will too, when her bed feels especially cold and empty. But a more haunting reason for her insomnia comes in the rewrite of who she should’ve been and who she’s not sure she can ever properly go back to.

* * *

_Rewrite #1_

Rebecca walks through the door and the trophy becomes heavy in her hand. Swallowing down her fear, Michaela steps away from Mr Keating but doesn’t make eye contact with Rebecca. She pulls herself up straight, smiles at him and simply and courteously says,

“Sir, perhaps you’re right. I will just leave the trophy on her desk, though I’d like to write a note.” She ignores the sound of Rebecca’s footsteps on the stairs and the way Sam flinches, though she steps further away from him and closer to the foot of the stairs, continues: “Do you think you could pass on a message?”

It ends there, the ghost of the trophy still in her hand and the weight of its pettiness now hanging in her chest as the fantasy merges into memory.

* * *

_Rewrite #2_

Wes says, “Promise me you won’t leave,” and Michaela hangs up immediately and walks out the door, leaving the shouts and hollow sounds of Mr Keating’s fists against the door behind her. Sometimes when she’s feeling generous, Connor is about to enter the driveway just as she’s leaving it and she tells him not to bother and he comes with her. Sometimes, Wes runs up to her, eyes wide with desperation and fear, and she says nothing to him.

She never thinks beyond the driveway. She is free.

She is free.

* * *

_Rewrite #3_

Laurel is in the corner and Connor is lying beside Mr Keating’s lifeless body. But she, she can speak. She says to call the police, explain what happened - they’ll understand; Sam killed Lila and they have the USB to prove it. Yes, officer, Rebecca did break and enter and that is of course illegal and less justifiable to a jury, I know, sir, I’m a law student, but the rest of us simply came here when she called for help. And we can testify that he was indeed trying to strangle Ms Stutter, and since when did self-defense not meet the criteria for justifiable murder?

She spends the night at a police station but can go home in the morning, her engagement ring still on her finger and her hands not blue with cold. Annalise finally cancels an exam.

* * *

_Rewrite #4_

Michaela doesn’t let Wes leave. She doesn’t let him take Rebecca, instead grabbing her by the wrist and letting her manicured nails dig in ever so slightly into her flesh, meeting Rebecca’s glare and not apologising for any of it.

“You’re the one that got us into this,” Michaela spits.

“I know,” Rebecca says coolly. She raises her head. “He wanted to kill me. I had no other choice.”

“No,” says Wes, looking up with wide eyes as the realisation hits him. Rebecca doesn’t look at him, waits for Michaela to nod before she continues.

“I had to kill him or he was going to kill me,” she says, ignoring Wes’ dissension. “I saw the trophy sitting there and I hit him in the head.” She pauses. “He deserved to die. And I’m glad he’s dead.” Michaela nods, finally letting go of Rebecca’s wrist to place her hands on Wes’ chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt until he listens to her.

“You are the one who got us into this,” she says through gritted teeth. “At least she,” she says, pointing to Rebecca, “is willing to take responsibility for what she’s done; what you’ve done to all of us. Now shut up or go to jail, but we’re not coming with you.” Wes stays silent, jaw clenched tightly.

“She’s right, Wes,” Laurel remarks quietly. “It’s three against one. And we’re leaving. We’re sorry.” They turn to look at Connor, who manages a small nod that’s lost in the tremors running throughout his body. With that, they say goodbye to Rebecca and leave the house. They do not go into the woods. No coin is tossed. Rebecca goes to trial and rests on the stand with more dignity than she will ever have while stuffed into a suitcase. Michaela carries on, sleeps easily in her bed the way she used to. The way she’s always done.

 

**_ii._ **

“Give me that,” Connor snaps, snatching the coin out of Wes’ hand. He tries to say, “if I’m going to let a freaking coin decide my future, I at least want some say in how it’s flipped,” but his mouth can’t manage to form around the words, his lips and throat dry from the cold air and unfamiliar taste of fear. Swallowing loudly, he struggles to get the coin to rest on his shaking hand, the toss he manages feeble at best but effortful enough that he deems it adequate anyway. It’s one of the few times he’s allowed himself something other than a perfect score.

“Tails,” he breathes out, his body suddenly feeling boneless. “It stays where it is.” Distantly, he hears Michaela let out an _oh my god_ , but it’s Wes’ determined face that catches his eye.

“Let me see that,” Laurel says, grabbing his hand and looking at the coin. “He’s telling the truth. Tails.” She maneuvers his hand to show Wes, the coin glinting in the moonlight eerily.

“Of course I’m telling the truth -” he starts.

“I’m going. You can clean the trophy up by yourselves -”

“Michaela -”

“Guys, come on,” Wes starts, and Connor feels something snap inside of him.

“No, you listen,” he snarls. “We’ve done what you’ve wanted to do all night and that ends now. You said to toss a coin, and we did, and fortune wasn’t in your favour. So maybe you finally understand how the rest of us feel. But we’re done. You and Laurel can go and put the trophy back but Michaela and I are going home.”

“Fine,” Wes replies after a pause, jaw tightly wound. “Good luck with studying.”

* * *

Connor still ends up on Oliver’s doorstep at four o’clock in the morning and tells him he has a drug problem the next morning. Nate’s fingerprints still find their way onto Sam’s wedding ring.  The only real difference is that Sam’s body stays whole and the autopsy reveals bruising around the forehead and shoulders, suggesting a full frontal fall. They put Annalise on the stand and ask why she didn't call for an ambulance sooner; why the storyline with Nate doesn't quite add up, and Connor may stay in the courtroom but he's on his phone texting Oliver the whole time and tuning it out, even after Wes pulls on his sleeve and growls at him to have some _respect_. 

Of course, what Connor doesn't know is that after Wes tells Annalise that Connor and Michaela went home, she calls Frank and implements the foundations of a back up plan. What Connor doesn't know, but soon will, is that Annalise has priorities, and he is not one of them. 

 

_**iii.** _

When Laurel sees tails, her heart sinks. For a moment, she thinks about lying. After all, Michaela’s barely been able to speak this whole time and Connor would be somewhat easily persuaded, so long as she and Wes are able to formulate a plan so he wouldn’t have to think. And yet, her stomach twists at the thought, though certainly not for the first time tonight.

“Tails,” she says finally. She hears Connor let out a long held breath and Michaela practically shakes with relief. “Look, it’s just a coin -”

“And Annalise knows,” Wes states calmly, looking up from the ground to stare straight in her eyes. Laurel feels herself gape at him, too shocked to close her mouth. “It’s ok,” he continues, “she told me what to do, and she has her own plan. But it means what we need to do is go back and get the body and dispose of it. Properly.”

“Are you seriously that blind?” shouts Connor. “She’s framing us.”

“It’s not framing if we’re actually responsible,” Michaela mutters.

“No, she’s saving us. She promised to protect us,” Wes argues. “So help her and protect yourself. Protect all of us. We’re going back for the body.”

* * *

Laurel cleans the trophy and can’t get the smell of bleach off her hands or hair for days afterwards. She helps to drag the body - Sam’s body - out to the woods and watches his face catch alight, managing for only a couple of seconds or so before she has to turn away. She watches herself pretending to laugh and dance at the bonfire and wonders if everyone else knows what they’re really doing, will know to identify their facade as an alibi if they’re questioned by police two days or two years from now. She thinks back to her high school biology lessons where she dissected hearts and kidneys as she bags Sam’s body.

She listens to Connor and Michaela’s frantic hypotheses and fantasies and wonders about what Annalise is doing, thinking right now; wonders how she’ll be able to step back inside her house the next day when she’s seen her husband’s blood smeared over the floor and seen the life go out of his eyes. She wonders if Annalise will be able to look at them again, and what she’ll see in her eyes if she does.

By the time Connor’s car has been packed with garbage bags, she’s exhausted and her hands are numb as she picks Michaela’s ring off the floor, slips it into her pocket. With a sigh of resignation, or perhaps even defeat, she calls Frank and asks him where the nearest incinerator is. He pauses, before telling her he “knows a guy” and gives her an address. She notes that he doesn’t ask questions, is grateful for it, at least in the meantime.

* * *

They wait a week, then two, and so it continues. Annalise’s house is inspected and Hannah Keating still comes to visit. But the photo on the investigator’s corkboard stays the same and Sam’s ashes remain undisturbed. Eventually, Frank comes up behind her and starts to massage her shoulders ever so slightly, tells her lowly to,

“Relax, sweetheart. Everything’s going to be fine,” and she hears the unspoken _I’ve done this before_. Despite herself, she leans into her touch, feels something like danger and guilt when she does and feels more human than she has in weeks; feels scared, normal, and not at all like her father’s daughter.

Nate is taken into custody but released 24 hours later when they can’t find enough evidence to hold him. Annalise begins to talk about how much fortune and prestige comes with being a lawyer, staring at Connor and Michaela while she does so. Laurel keeps the ring close to her, jokes with Frank while they’re in bed together about having to worry about future lawyers having a conscience. Things carry on, and yet it never feels like any of them stop waiting.

 

_**iv.** _

What Wes realises that the others don’t is that this story always ends with a body in the woods.

In most cases, it is Sam Keating’s - burned and dismembered and bagged. But other times, it is Rebecca’s, drowned in a lake or shot in the back and left to be found in the woods two days, or perhaps even a week, later. On occasion it is Hannah Keating’s, a death created out of anger rather than a desperate will to survive, and very rarely it is even one of them, snatched and taken on a never-ending detour from the police station. 

He finds no comfort in this fact, but he understands that for every action there is a reaction, and that includes death. In the best cases, that reaction involves justice, but in the case of Lila Stangard’s death, it starts and ends with a corpse.

 

 

 

 ****  
  


 


End file.
